Republic Commando: Bha'lir Squad: Gasoline
by Izzers
Summary: Two halves are thrust together to form a new Republic Commando squad. What possible hijinks can ensue, with a ladies man Squad Leader, a hard-headed Heavy Weapons expert 2nd-In-Command, an exceptionally unlucky medic, and a stimulant dependent engineer?
1. Move

**A/N:** Originally, I had a story with an Original Character cantina bartender (female) interacting with an ARC trooper and his accomplice, a Commando-in-training. I scrapped that original idea, kept the cantina bartender, but replaced the unusual clone team with two members of a squad. But in order to continue writing the story, I had to complete the squad, and then get into their heads a little bit. This resulted in the creation of Bha'lir Squad, part of the elite Republic Commandos.

And, well. I took the squad and ran with them. _(There won't be any mention of the previous OC.)_

Please keep in mind that Commandos (like _all_ of the other Clones) are not issued names, they are 'recognized' by their numbers. They have no rights, like the rest of the Clone Army, and thus are not allowed possessions of any kind. They are property of the Republic.

I don't write happy fun time stories. Life is **not** happy fun time, 75% of the time. Hence, a serving or two of controversial material goes here (especially controversial in the Star Wars universe, as well.)

**Quick list of Squad Members:  
**RC-3192 _Beten_  
RC-7177 _E'tad_  
RC-2405 _Mute_  
RC-5163 _Toss_

This takes place during the Clone Wars, obviously. If you are unfamiliar with Commandos and their squads, I'd like to recommend the book series **Republic Commando**, which offers the Clone Wars in a light we haven't had before now—a true, real, **military perspective**, and the individual men involved in the galaxy wide war.

**Warnings:** As per most of my stories, expect to read much suggestive and/or contraversial material, including but not limited to: sexual themes, excessive cursing, violence, drug use/addiction/dependency, hints of PTSD, mental-health related issues, homosexual implications, and violence. If this bothers you in any way, shape, or form, _or_ if you are a minor _(aka, under-aged)_, there is a button at the top of your screen that says **BACK**. I suggest you use it. Thank you.

**Disclaimer:** This is a non-profit, amateur effort not intended to infringe on the rights of any copyright holder. Mando'a, Huttese, and any other Star Wars language belongs to LucasArts and other holders, if there are. Characters belong to their respective owners. **  
**

* * *

**Carrack-class Light Cruiser Neebray, en-route to RAS Auspicious,  
Yuwei XI, Mid Rim, 427 days after Geonosis**

"I don't know who they're sticking us with, Sarge," muttered RC-2405, _Mute_, into the secured comlink. "Command deposited us on a transport with a one way ticket to one of the attack cruisers orbiting the Outer Rim's Coruscant."

"Which one?" grunted one miffed Mandalorian Feeorin.

"The fattest one with the prettiest hair," the commando deadpanned.

"…this is a secure channel, you know."

"Yeah, Sarge. But we're en-route with a company of shinies, and they don't appreciate me handing over information so freely."

"_Shab_." The Mandalorian laughed. "Ni n'arue." _I'm no enemy._

"I know."

"Tion'vaii E'tad?" _Where's E'tad?_

"He's… around. He doesn't like being seen together all the time, especially in the 'freshers. Says it gives the other brothers too much _suggestive_ gossip material."

"Suggestive material?" The commando could hear the surprised amusement in the Feeorin's gruff voice. "Your brothers… would think along those lines?"

"Commandos are eccentric, Sarge. That's what they say, and we don't try to make them think different. I don't think the troopers would go that far, but I'm not the chatty type—"

The Mandalorian snorted.

"—so I wouldn't know. Preemptive strike. I don't know if I want to fuel that type of adventurous storytelling yet."

The 'fresher door hissed open. Mute glanced over his shoulder…

…just in time to see the fist before it smashed into his face. Pain exploded behind his eyes as he clattered backwards onto the tiled floor. The comlink bounced away from his outstretched hand and settled by the sinks.

"_Di'kut_," hissed RC-7177, _E'tad_, as he stepped over his brother's groaning form. He plucked the comlink off the ground. "You didn't tell me you were going to com Tam'buir."

"Nice to hear from you, Et'ika. Don't hit your brother," Sarge grunted.

"Too late."

"Shab," spat Mute. "Who else would I com in the can, _chakaar?_ That _hurt_."

"I'm not sorry," E'tad politely informed his downed brother as he stepped back over to the fresher door and sealed the lock.

Mute grunted a few times as he picked himself off the floor. He stumbled over to the sinks, gripped the edge of the nearest one, and leaned forward to look into the mirror. The commando gently poked his rapidly purpling cheekbone. Nothing was broken, and there was no permanent damage that he could see.

"Oh thank the Manda," he said. "You didn't damage my beautiful face."

E'tad snorted as he leaned his back against the locked door. "It's not your face you should worry about. Your hair's getting long. It's past regulation length."

"Past reg' length?" Sarge's voice echoed cleanly in the 'freshers. "Need to get that cut, _ad'ika_."

"No thanks." Mute angled his head to the side. His hair remained unaffected by his earlier fall… the rows of dark curls were still in place, so tightly braided to his skull that he might as well have been trimmed. There was nothing wrong with a little style. His brother was just jealous.

"It gives me _character_."

E'tad snorted. "Whatever."

"Any news on Sixer?" Mute asked as he turned around.

Soft static echoed via the comlink, which indicated that Sarge had the speech button pressed but had nothing to say. The commandos stayed silent. Waited. They were nothing if not patient when the need arose.

"…it doesn't look good." The Feeorin finally grunted. "I'm working on it boys, but I'm no healer."

E'tad let his head drop back to hit the door with a soft thunk. Across the 'fresher, Mute hung his head forward and stared at the tiles.

The silence stretched on. Mute counted the seconds in his head.

"It's okay, Sarge," E'tad said finally. "We knew he wasn't going to get better."

"I was the one who diagnosed him, after all," said Mute.

"Besides, someone's gotta keep Asher company." E'tad's voice cracked over the last word. He pressed the back of a fist to his mouth and automatically went over a few controlled breathing exercises.

It didn't help that the following static seemed to choke out the air in the 'fresher.

Mute turned around to grip the sink and stare at his face again. It hurt to breathe over the ache is his chest, so he held his breath and stared hard at his reflection. If he squinted, he could see his brothers instead of himself.

The Feeorin sighed. "Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la." _Not gone, merely marching far away._

Though there was no way Sarge could see it, both of the commandos nodded silently.

"I have to cut this short," the ex-sergeant continued. "Keep in touch, _ad'ike_."

"Yes sir."

"Yes sir."

The comlink beeped twice and disconnected. Through the mirror, Mute watched his brother drag his feet across the room to tap him on the shoulder. Mute held out his hand, and received the personal comlink. He deactivated the small black box and then slipped the com into a secret pocket sewn just inside the seam of his bodysuit's waistband.

A knock at the 'fresher door abruptly ended the mood.

"_What are you two doing in there?"_

"_Together? Again?"_

"_Leave 'em alone, they need their privacy."_

"_Someone unlock this door!"_

"_Di'kute_," Mute whispered, grinning at his reflection. A bit louder, he gasped, "Oh Et'ika. _Et'ika_."

E'tad shot his brother a glare. "What are you…?"

Mute grinned a little wider and puckered his lips together. "Oh _brother._"

E'tad blanched. "Oh no. _No way!_"

"_Et'ika._ Et—E'tad? Where're you going?"

The door hissed open and E'tad disappeared faster than a top-of-the-line Corellian freighter could make the jump to hyperspace. Left in his wake was a trooper on the ground, his brothers spread out around him, with a palm cupping his swollen cheek and his mouth in the shape of an 'o'.

Mute stuffed his hands into his bodysuit's pockets and calmly strode out of the 'freshers. He didn't have to say a thing, the troopers jumped and obediently scattered the moment he exited the room.

Sometimes it was good to be a commando.

But only sometimes.


	2. Sleep

**A/N:** In case you haven't noticed, the chapters will be revolving somewhat in 3rd person perspective, from one squad member to the next. Please keep in mind that Commandos are not issued names, they are 'recognized' by their numbers. They have no rights, like the rest of the Clone Army, and thus are not allowed possessions of any kind. They, themselves, are property of the Republic.

This takes place during the Clone Wars, obviously. If you are unfamiliar with Commandos and their squads, I'd like to recommend the book series **Republic Commando**, which offers the Clone Wars in a light we haven't had before now—a true, real, **military perspective**, and the individual men involved in the galaxy wide war.

**Quick list of Squad Members:  
**RC-3192 _Beten_  
RC-7177 _E'tad_  
RC-2405 _Mute_  
RC-5163 _Toss_

**Warnings:** As per most of my stories, expect to read much suggestive and/or contraversial material, including but not limited to: sexual themes, excessive cursing, violence, drug use/addiction/dependency, hints of PTSD, mental-health related issues, homosexual implications, and violence. If this bothers you in any way, shape, or form, _or_ if you are a minor _(aka, under-aged)_, there is a button at the top of your screen that says **BACK**. I suggest you use it. Thank you.

**Disclaimer:** This is a non-profit, amateur effort not intended to infringe on the rights of any copyright holder. Mando'a, Huttese, and any other Star Wars language belongs to LucasArts and other holders, if there are. Characters belong to their respective owners. **  
**

* * *

**Republic Assault Ship Auspicious, in-orbit over Yuwe XI, Mid Rim,  
427 days after Geonosis**

RC-3192, _Beten_, shrugged on the top half of his fatigues and rose to his feet in the dark. All personal quarters on all warships looked the same, as long as one knew which kind they were in. This commando in particular knew, without a doubt, he was in a Jedi commander's.

The commando noiselessly crossed the meter between the cot and the door, pressed his palm to the doorpanel, and exited without so much as a glance to the sleeping form left behind. He strolled away from the private quarters with his hands in his pockets. The top half of his fatigues hung open down to his waist, bouncing slightly as he walked despite the rigid material. He took a left, down another hall dimly lit to conserve energy.

Normally he'd have bumped into one of the other clones, but the ship was always quietest on third shift. The commando turned right, down another corridor, and stopped at a single plain door. The panel obediently reacted to the code he tapped in, and the door to his shared room hissed open. He placed a hand on the doorframe and peered inside.

Empty.

Unperturbed, the commando buttoned up his red fatigues, keyed in the door's lock code, and then left the private quarters entirely. He could rouse his brother on their personal comlink channel, but that would interrupt whatever his brother was up to.

Besides, if Beten couldn't locate his own pod brother in a timely manner, he didn't deserve the little sleep he could've gotten otherwise.

It took a few minutes—20 standard, he counted—to walk from the barracks to the closest hangar, which was conveniently the closest one to the mess on this side of the assault ship. It was, understandably, the favored hangout of many a pilot, bar none.

The moment he stepped into the massive space, he heard what sounded like the soft, slow moving music civvies might listen to while relaxing within an upper-class lounge on Coruscant—one usually sung by an attractive female in a sparkling dress and fanciful headgear. A faint blue light illuminated a corner tucked behind two parked CR-20 troop carriers and half a squad's worth of Alpha-3s. He approached it with hands still buried in his pockets.

Yeah. It was definitely that kind of music. He reared around the corner of an Alpha-3, and instantly noticed the half meter high holo of a classy Twi-lek who wore a dress that hugged her hips so tight it might as well have been a second skin. She danced inside an open CR-20, swaying her hips side to side in lazy, catlike movements. Her mouth moved as though she huskily sung the current song, which was something about money, women, and a man who "don't do right."

In the small open space surrounded on all sides by parked ships, three groups of troopers huddled around separate makeshift tables and played Sabacc. Among them, Beten caught sight of RC-5163, _Toss_. If his trimmed orange mohawk didn't give him away, the triple stripe orange goatee connecting his lower lip to his chin certainly did.

"Read 'em and weep, boys—Fool's Array." Toss triumphantly slapped his cards down onto the crate.

"Frack."

"_Osik_."

"What the _kriff?_"

The clones with him tossed their cards down onto the empty crate with various curses. Toss cupped his hands over the pool—which consisted not of credits but bits of sweet pastries and other small treats.

"Is he cheating again?" Beten asked.

"No sir, I would never!" Toss grinned cheekily as he sampled a small cream-filled puff pastry.

"Liar." One of the pilots, _Sleight_, waved a highly rude gesture in Toss' face.

Another pilot, _Slim_, greeted Beten with a lazy salute. "Oh hey, Sarge."

"Want to join us?" asked the third pilot, _Mixer_, without turning around, busy shuffling the cards in front of him.

Beten shook his head. "Just here to watch, _vode_."

"So how was the Commander?"

Beten glanced over his shoulder. He knew he hadn't been followed—she probably couldn't walk right if she tried, not after last night—but he allowed himself the nervous habit. Better safe than sorry.

"Wildcat. My back's going to need some bacta," he informed his brothers with a leer and leaned against the hull of the closest Alpha-3. "Take it from me—Jedi flexibility isn't just a rumor, _vode._ I had her bent in all the _right ways._ And her mouth does more than just _look_ pretty, _much more…_" He reached forward, plucked a treat from Toss' victory pile, and popped it into his mouth. The sugar sweetcream melted on his tongue and sent a shiver down his spine.

"Lucky _shabuir_," Sleight muttered gruffly.

Slim daintily sniffed and pointed his nose up towards the ceiling. "Such disrespect."

Toss snorted.

"Didn't someone say Jedi vowed an oath of celibacy?" one of the clones from the other Sabacc groups called out.

"Guess it's open for interpretation." Toss shrugged.

Beten crossed his arms. "Yeah. Like the rest of their code."

Conversation died down across the groups after that. The music dragged on, filling the silence with the trill of a husky Twi'leki singer.

Eventually, Mixer sighed. "Don't know how you do it, Sarge." The pilot paused and shook his head as he dealt out the next round of cards. "Ladies should be all over us flyboys, but instead they go straight to you cut-up meatheads."

Toss laughed. "Like clutching a flight stick with one hand and pumping your fist is the go-getter for the womens."

"Whoa, _whoa._ I take offense," gasped Slim.

Sleight guffawed, nearly scattering the cards out of his hands. "I don't!"

"The moment we get our new squadmates, we're shipping off, Mixer," Beten reminded him. "No more having to compete with us manly folk."

"Yeah, yeah." Mixer snorted. "You sure you don't want to join us?"

"No," Beten replied as he eyed the cards. "I don't gamble."


	3. Inspire

**Disclaimer:** This is a non-profit, amateur effort not intended to infringe on the rights of any copyright holder. Mando'a, Huttese, and any other Star Wars language belongs to LucasArts and other holders, if there are. Characters belong to their respective owners. **  
**

**Quick list of Squad Members:  
**RC-3192 _Beten_  
RC-7177 _E'tad_  
RC-2405 _Mute_  
RC-5163 _Toss_

**Warnings:** As per most of my stories, expect to read much suggestive and/or contraversial material, including but not limited to: sexual themes, excessive cursing, violence, drug use/addiction/dependency, hints of PTSD, mental-health related issues, homosexual implications, and violence. If this bothers you in any way, shape, or form, _or_ if you are a minor _(aka, under-aged)_, there is a button at the top of your screen that says **BACK**. I suggest you use it. Thank you.

* * *

**Republic Assault Ship Auspicious, Hangar Deck,  
428 days after Geonosis**

Commander Aasa was giving a rousing speech. E'tad could tell, from the way his trooper brothers tensed and paid the utmost attention to the red-skinned near-human on the elevated platform above them. And from the way she moved, perhaps it was rousing in different ways. Zeltron were known for releasing pheromones to subtly entice or manipulate their audience, after all.

But he didn't know for sure—he couldn't hear the speech over the conversation his newly re-formed squad was having. That, and his armor's advanced filtration system likely kept out any unneeded pheromones from contaminating him.

"So let's clear the air." Bha'lir Squad's Leader, Beten, spoke with a smooth voice—the kind E'tad linked with smugglers who had various females tripping over themselves for in cantinas across the galaxy. "What do you do in your free time?"

"Girls," spoke Mute in his subtly ragged voice.

"Sabacc," said Toss, oozing positivity with one word.

"Girls," echoed Beten.

E'tad bristled. Was he the only _sensible_ one here? "Wishing I could _hear_ the _Jedi Commander._"

Beten chuckled. The irritating, smug grin E'tad knew was plastered to the _chakaar_'s face leaked into his voice. "Lighten up, _ner vod_. Zeltron can sense emotions, even through the armor. Think happy thoughts or she'll really notice her hormone hocus-pocus isn't getting to us."

"They got to you last night, _vod._" Toss laughed.

E'tad attempted to rein in his horror with thoughts of the things he loved best—heavy weapons. He began to list the separate parts of a Reciprocating Quad Blaster, more commonly known as the Cip-Quad. He mentally took apart the weapon, and then pieced it back together with small, additional experimental modifications to the built-in microrepulsorlifts. If he adjusted the powercell, perhaps it could fire more rounds per second…

"_The Commander?_ Seriously?"

"Well, I don't like to brag…"

"Yes he does. Don't let his hair fool you."

"...What?"

"Huh?"

"What's wrong with my hair?"

"It's red."

"…Your's is orange."

"So?"

"So you're one to t—"

"Heads up. Commander incoming."

E'tad snapped to attention as the Zeltron Jedi reared around the troopers and came to a stop in front of him and his three brothers. She lacked the bulky robes of most Jedi, instead she wore tight trousers and what looked like half a shirt—highly impractical, he decided. Her black hair hung in braids down to her shapely hips, and her face was perfectly symmetrical. From afar, he could tell she was what most species would _qualify_ as beautiful. But up close…he was suddenly acutely aware of her proximity and his own rapidly increased discomfort.

"RC-3192." Commander Aasa spoke with a pleasing lilt to her voice that seemed to demand E'tad's absolute attention. But she wasn't talking to him. "A word, if you please."

"Yes, Commander." The squad leader's helmet's outbound speakers failed to filter out the charm.

E'tad watched the two of them walk off to the side. The Commander stopped, too close to Beten to have been deemed proper by regulations standards. Beten's helmet remained on, though his head was bowed slightly and nodded every few moments as if he were speaking or agreeing with her. E'tad couldn't tell.

For a moment he felt strange, but the longer he prodded the emotion, the faster he realized what it was that bothered him—he was jealous. E'tad crushed the thought and turned his back to the two, though he kept an eye on them anyway via the 360° panoramic view his helmet's Heads-Up Display offered.

With a few blinks, E'tad opened a private channel between him and his real brother, though he would never express such thoughts out loud.

"What kind of leader is this _shabuir?_" E'tad blurted.

"_Besom_," Mute replied. "With a lot of _gett'se?_"

"I don't like him."

His brother's long, heavy sigh was the only response he received.

Bha'lir Squad's private comm channel, shared between the four of them, flashed. E'tad switched back over in time to hear Beten's cocky chuckle. "I think she has a thing for me _vode_."

_The nerve…_ E'tad thought bitterly. To say such a thing while he was _still speaking_ with the Commander!

"So?" Mute asked.

"So we need to ship out of here, and fast," Toss replied.

Beten saluted the Commander and returned to his squad, outwardly displaying no change in behavior. But somehow, _somehow,_ E'tad knew there was a stupid, self-satisfied smirk on Squad Leader's face.

"What?" E'tad tried and failed to keep the irritation from his voice.

"Why?" Mute asked. He sounded amused, but E'tad could read the bewilderment in his brother's stance.

"Nothing serious," Beten replied smoothly, and then clapped E'tad amiably on the shoulder as he walked past. E'tad barely quashed the urge to rip off the leader's helmet and smack him in the face. "Just hoping our next assignment will be on the other side of the galaxy."

"Yeah," said Toss as he strolled shoulder-to-shoulder with Beten, leaving behind E'tad and his _real_ brother. "Better start packing."

E'tad's hand twitched. He crushed the impulse to pull out his DC-17m, with anti-armor attachment, and blow new holes into 3192 and 5163's armored backs. He then briefly debated shutting off all comm channels and cursing his throat raw within the safe confines of his helmet, but soon dismissed that plan as well.

The ill-mannered _shabuir_ was going to get them all killed. He just knew it.


End file.
